


Fallen From Grace

by WolfjawsWriter



Series: Darkwood and Co. [4]
Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Other, Past Violence, Psychologists & Psychiatrists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 08:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17076665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfjawsWriter/pseuds/WolfjawsWriter
Summary: “Fallen From Grace” - DarkwoodLockwood and Co. SeriesSummary: His no longer king.Warning: depictions of madness and violenceAU: Darkwood and Co.——Bobby——





	Fallen From Grace

**Author's Note:**

> “Fallen From Grace” - Darkwood
> 
> Lockwood and Co. Series
> 
> Summary: His no longer king.
> 
> Warning: depictions of madness and violence
> 
> AU: Darkwood and Co.
> 
> ——Bobby——

The heels of my boots clicked loudly on the empty, white halls. I could hear the far off sounds of people screaming, but their words were mostly muffled by the thick concrete walls around me. I held my clipboard to my chest, pen in hand. My white lab coat flapped beside my legs as I walked through the halls, past many white and grey doors labelled with numbers beside them. 

 

_‘…3.9, 3.10, 3.11, 3.12…’_

 

There were no windows in the hall, it was purely lightened with electricity. Someone walked out of one of the doors, carrying a clipboard and a tray with containers, he was dressed in white lab coat as well. “Dr Vernon” They passed beside me with a curt nod. I kept walking. 

 

_‘…3.18, 3.19, 3.20…’_

 

I rounded the corner. The next doors had windows on them, looking inside their respective rooms. There were people inside them. Sitting or laying down on white beds, or white couches, dressed in white gowns that only reached their knees. Some of them talked with their arms tightly crossed over their chests, or they simply mumbled silently with their knees drawn up to their chests. Some of them just stared at the walls or out the window of the door, eyes lost deep inside their dark and morbid thoughts. 

 

_‘…3.29, 3.30…’_

 

I neared the end of the hall, where a single door, painted in light grey, waited, labeled. 

 

_‘3.35’_

 

“Doctor” Someone, a woman, approached from me behind, also dressed with a white lab coat. She carried a try with her, filled with little bottles, containers and syringes “right on time”

 

“As always”

 

“Of course” She took out a set of keys, all of them different from one another, each of them for a special lock on the same door. After a couple of minutes wait, she finally opened it, and we entered.

 

It was a spacious room, or at that’s the impression it gave. The room was actually small in itself, with a large window that took up a whole wall, allowing the bright sunlight inside. There was a bed on one of the corners of the room, neatly made, not a single wrinkle on the plain white covers or the pillow. In front of the window, only a few steps away, there was a simple couch and an armchair, facing each other, some small coffee tables around them, giving the impression of a small living room. 

And sitting on the armchair was a man. I made my way to the couch.

 

He sat there, silently, looking out the window, long legs crossed, swung over the armrest. He leaned against the back of the armchair, not noticing as I sat before him. He had his hair cut into what he called to be an ‘ectoplasm-proof’ bob, resting just above his shoulders, one of the dark, curly locks between his fingers, getting slowly twirled with. There was a big pair of round glasses perched on his aquiline nose, though he did not needed them. On the coffee table beside him there was an empty teacup, white with golden streaks on it, from an old tea set that had been broken; it always sat there, never filled and never used, just sitting there in silence.

 

“Afternoon, Mr Lockwood” I clicked my pen. He didn’t look at me, his eyes firmly on the vastness outside the window.

 

“Afternoon…already?” He said after a moment. He kept absentmindedly twirling the lock in his fingers. He did that so often, that bit of hair was permanently curled “should have guessed…”

 

“Yes, you should have” I waited for the doctor to finish fussing around him, giving him medicines and applying shots on his arms. He made no movement to all this but to take the many pills he was given; he was already used to it all. After a few minutes, she left the room, without a single word to me or to him “Now, Mr Lockwood, today is a very special day. Do you know why?”

 

He still kept his eyes firmly on the window “Is it? It seemed like a normal day to me…”

 

“Actually, today we celebrate a year of when you were defeated. Its the day of Fallen Agents” I watched closely for a reaction. Something that would tell me what he was thinking, what he was feeling, anything, but I got nothing. He didn’t show anything, ever. It felt like he was somehow absent of his own body, but at the same time he could some of those times grace me with a response. He nodded slowly.

 

“Fallen Agents…yeah, but those weren’t us” He finally looked at me. His eyes were dark and tired, the traces of a powerful, commanding glare just barely recognizable in them, unlike when he had been brought here. Back then he had been a much different man; much stronger, with an air of prowess transpiring from him in waves, giving him a semblance of magnitude and virtue.

 

“It is you, Mr Lockwood” I jotted down on my clipboard while I spoke “it refers to when you and your agents turned your backs on the rest of society”

 

“Turned our backs?” He _tsk_ -ed, gently shaking his head, like a father reprimanding his child for a small, easily-made mistake “…we turned ourselves to look at our destiny”

 

“Yes, you’ve told me before, Mr Lockwood; ‘govern over the world’, but how well did it result?”

 

He remained silent. His fingers left the curl he had been twirling. His hand took the glasses from his nose and cleaned them on his white gown, but the glasses didn’t need much cleaning “…it did gt us to reign over England for fifteen years, didn’t it?”

 

“Mr Lockw-”

 

“We took control over London thanks to my plan; we killed Barnes, Fittes and Rotwell thanks to my perfect calculations and precise decisions. You can always ask anyone, Kipps for exam- Ah right, not Kipps, not after I made him a pincushion…or should I say rapier-cushion?”

 

I didn’t answer him, my teeth were gritted too tightly to do so. He smirked. 

 

“Yes Mr Lockwood. I know. I was there” my words came out bitterly, a little more than I intended, but it was true. I had been there, and if it hadn’t been for Kat I wouldn’t have made it out. She didn’t.

 

I was the only one that did.

 

He finished cleaning the specks with his gown and gently placed them over his nose again, resting back against the chair.

 

“Why don’t you take the glasses off, Mr Lockwood?” I wrote down on my clipboard once more “we both know you don’t need them”

 

“George does”

 

“George is dead”

 

“…is he?” He rose a clever eyebrow at me from behind the round glasses. I growled in the back of my throat.

 

“He is. Alphonse killed him on this very day a year ago” He got about swinging his legs over the armrest, slow like he was in deep thought. I finished my notes on the clipboard.

 

“He isn’t dead. I talk to him” I sighed frustrated.

 

“Mr Lockwood, we know for a fact you lost your talents years ago. And when you had them, you weren’t a Listener. You could only _See_ ghosts, not Listen to ghosts, so the claim that you can hear a man that’s been long death is madness. As well as your claims to be able to talk with your late wife and with Miss Munro”

 

He shook his head “I can speak to them. All the time”

 

I sat straighter “Mr Lockwood, George Cubbins is dead. Holly Munro is dead. Your wife is dead as well. They were all killed a year ago and you’re very well aware of this” But he just kept shaking his head, slowly. Mockingly slow. Cynically slow. Ironically slow. 

 

“They’re alive. I speak to them, all the day just like we did before you overthrew us”

 

“No they aren’t. You, Mr Lockwood, are just still going through denial like you have been for the last year, but it is time you move on from that. Your old reign will never be true again, you’ll spend the rest of your days here”

 

“Oh no, I won’t” He purred, almost happily “I will leave this place, once my child is born”

 

I sighed for seemingly the hundredth time that day, taking more notes on my clipboard “Mr Lockwood, your wife is _dead_. There will never be a ‘child’ of any sorts between you two, not now”

 

“There will”

 

I decided against continuing that line of conversation, since he would probably turn it against me, like he always did. Even though I found it extremely annoying that he did, I also thought it was incredibly fascinating; the way the conversation would always seem to flow naturally, perhaps even to your advantage, and suddenly- _BAAM!_ He turned it against you. With something as simple, meaningless and small as a comment, maybe even the slightest innuendo, but he always caught you off guard. No matter how many times you had seen it happen, how much you’re used to him and his antics, he would always manage to turn things against you. 

It made me somehow understand how he got about his deeds.

 

“Going back to the original topic at hand, Mr Lockwood-”

 

“I don’t wish to discuss any future plans with you, Bobby. I only review my plans with Lucy before consulting them over with George and Holly” He had taken hold of the empty cup on the coffee table. His slim fingers caressed the cup’s golden rim in slow motions. 

 

It still managed to amaze me that he had grown to be as tall as he was. It wasn’t normal for people to grow that much; his hands could envelop and hide the cup in them with ease! He truly was an impressive man, not only for his astonishing yet heinous accomplishments, but his physique as well; the physical-health test results were impeccable and his prized good looks weren’t gone, if only ripening now as he got into his mid-thirties, but his mental health had always been worth the doubts, since back when he was a teenager and would pull all those crazy stunts with his agents that I heard from Mr Kipps, to when they took over Fittes that night…

 

“I don’t ask you to discuss them with me, Mr Lockwood, I was merely asking what had been on your mind as of lately”

 

“…I have been considering baby names” It took me a big effort not to roll my eyes or remind him of what I had explained to him literally seconds ago. It didn’t seem to matter the amount of times I explained to him that his wife had been killed a year ago, he still believed that Lucy would come to this room by the end of the day and they would lay and talk about their future kid.

 

The alarm on the watch on my wrist beeped before he could say more. 

 

“Seems like our time is up for today, Mr Lockwood” I placed my pen back on my coat’s chest-pocket “I will see you again next week”

 

“…I find Celia to be a particularly pretty name” He continued talking. He had left the cup on its usual place on the nightstand again. His eyes were once more lost in the vastness of the restored city outside the window, twirling that small curl of hair between his fingers, his voice hushing into a lonesome whisper and droning on about names and then other things that I couldn’t hear. 

 

I walked out of the room with a frustrated groan. A little less than a year working with him and still no progress made. I had to admit, even if Anthony Lockwood was loosing his mind, he still had in him the same brilliant spark about himself that had gotten him to power in his younger years. 

 

And, dear God, was it infuriating! This man, that was nothing more than that; a man, who managed to bring down an entire government with only three people at his command and hundreds of thousands of vindictive souls, all who listened to his every demand and order without a question. For the whole fifteen years he ruled, the rates of Ghost Touch had decreased dramatically all around the Britain, and now that he had been taken down, ghosts had gone back to their wild selves, killing all those who would be close to them at night time.

 

Somehow, Anthony Lockwood had gotten ghosts to listen and obey him, and that secret was still inside him, locked away and secured in that strange, dark and sick mind of his, waiting for someone to take it out of him. We needed to get it out, for the sake of the English people. 

 

We wouldn’t have saved him from the same fate his followers and friends got for nothing.


End file.
